There was a time the sun could find no fault in Lisa
A time she radiated joy and love
But now she is not well
Sweet lovely but unwell Lisa.
I wish that I was chef enough
To conjure up such sweet and strong confections
As might perhaps lend her the strength
To fight that thing that ails her.
But neither can I be with her
To hold her hand and pray
Some god might help to mend her ills.
No, I cannot be with her
Nor pray
To a god who does not see her worth
And heal her
Such gods cannot exist
And I will send no prayer to vacant heavens
All that I can do is write this ragged verse
to remind her that I think of her
And wish that I could make
Sweet marmalade for Lisa.
La douleur dans ma tête
Les nuages dansent au-dessus des cieux
Les visages noirs sont tous ce que je vois
Si seulement j'avais une rose
La rose pourrait mourir avec moi
J'ai perdu l'amour
J'ai perdu la vie
Ils se moquent de moi
je suis malade
Ils pensent que je suis fou
Je suis fou sans toi
Tu es mort dans ma matrice
Je suis mort avec toi
La pierre dans mon coeur
Est toi
La larme dans mon oeil
Seulement pour toi
Quand tout le bouquet de fleurs est mort
Je viendrai vous embrasser ma petite
La terre sera notre couverture
Alors je peux te tenir pour toujours
Personne ne rira plus
January.
I now perform the annual alchemy,
my purpose :
to capture Spanish sunshine in a jar.
Seville :
white fragrant flower to bitter orange sphere.
Childrey :
sugar, water, shredded peel to liquid gold.
Now attend
and carefully stir the boiling cauldron,
Shakespearian
witch-like, the transmutation is complete.
Scottish myth.
Her courtiers cry “Ma’am est malade”, forsooth,
Mair’s headache
cured with orange confiture, a royal preserve.
At breakfast.
The early morning sun aslant the glass,
light shining
through shredded peel makes goldfish in the swim.
Marmalade.
The bitter-sweet tang melds with buttered toast.
Marvellous
flavour. What better way to start the day ?
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